


After Endor

by Nilaza



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: After Endor, Angst, Drabble, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilaza/pseuds/Nilaza
Summary: On a seedy bar in the arse end of the Galaxy, Piett finally finds Veers again, one year after the Empire’s defeat at Endor. One shot.





	After Endor

For a second, Piett might fool himself into thinking that this is the cantina onboard the Lady Ex: the ‘tender droid looks the same, and the bulking figure at the bar is familiar. But the illusion only lasts a second. Real but dim daylight filters through the windows, the dust dancing in the sunbeams. The room reeks of booze and less appetizing things, and the paint on the walls is scaly. No one is wearing a uniform, and Piett spots several species talking in several tongues beside Basic. Even the ‘tender droid has seen better days; it bears marks from blasters and accumulated dirt, and it misses an eye. This is more Axxila than Executor, and the Executor is nothing but space debris scattered on Endor. He will never walk onboard again.

Piett looks away from the droid, and tries to breathe through his mouth. He is tense, thinking about dingy bars on Axxila was not a good idea. Piett focuses on the figure at the bar. It is unmistakably him, the way he sits, though sloped, the sheer size of the man, the graying but still thick hair on his head. Or maybe it is just because Piet knows him so well, has longed to see him again. For all he wants to rush to him̶ it has been two bloody years, and seeing the dirtpounder again makes his chest ache̶he strides calmly toward him.

The vibroblade wound on his leg from last night aches; he was cornered by thugs seeking to steal his not-existing credits. He showed them that there was still a lot of the dirty-fighting street urchin in him, ex-admiral or not. Glass crunches under his jackboot heels, the only thing besides his blaster he’s kept after going underground, as he nears the man at the bar. There are several empty stools on either side of him, and Piett understands why: even sans his uniform, there is something about the way he sits that screams danger.

“Ello Max,” he says with an ease he doesn’t feel. He uses his Axxilan accent; it has been surprisingly hard discarding the Core polish he’d gotten used to, but he figures it makes him less recognizable. “Ye still can’t hold yer-“ He stops when Veers turns towards him. Stops to properly look at him while his stomach sinks to somewhere beneath the floor.

Veers is wearing a simple, strained tunic, and trousers in an equally sorry state. His hair could do with a cut, and though it’s been about two years since he last saw him, Veers appears to have aged several decades. His skin is a sickly gray-purple color, and age lines have been carved into it.

Piett spotted several glasses at Veers’ elbow already upon entry, and now that he can smell his breath and see his unfocused eyes, he realizes how plastered Veers is. He usually teased him mercilessly about him not holding his liquor as well as Piett himself, but it took a lot to get him this shitfaced. But that is not all; Veers’ eyes are glossed over, bloodshot, and with a characteristic purple hue underneath. His lips are also blue, and a glance at his fingernails confirm them to be blue as well.

Piett grits his teeth as anger pools in his stomach; he’s spent a small decade fighting glitterstim trafficking on Axxila as a young lieutenant, and he knows the signs of heavy usage very well. He also knows where it usually ends: with death as the blood cells stop being able to obtain oxygen properly. “What’ve ye been doin’ ta’ yerself, ye great big berk!” he hisses.

“Piss off-“ Veers slurs, scowling, his gaze is unfocused.

“Max-“

“I said: Piss. Off!” he snarls, getting to his feet. Piett is impressed he can even stand. In fact, Veers towers over him, radiating feverish anger, fists clenched. Piett takes a step back, but Veers sways, and his knees give in under him. He slumps back onto his seat, though he’s still glaring at Piett and his hands stay fisted.

Piett looks around, then he leans in, putting over his Axxilan accent the Coreworld polish he doesn’t have much use for these days. “General!” he says in his command voice, begging no authorities are around. “Bedroom, now!” His body tenses, ready to retreat at once.

“Admiral!” Veers exclaims, far too loudly. A wide and warm smile blooms on his face. His eyes are foggy and his gaze still disorientated, and he’s draped across the bar, muscles limp.

Piett’s stomach feels heavy; Veers is staring straight at him, but he doesn’t see him. Of course Piett expected him to be affected, but there is something about seeing the general so beaten that is utterly heartbreaking. He has seen him fight insurmountable odds, stand up to Ozzel and even Vader. He keeps his face carefully neutral, and places a hand on Veers’ arm. “I hope you can stand up for longer than that, I’ve no chance of carrying you.”

Piett hooks one of Veers’ arms around his shoulders to support him. Veers staggers and stumbles, and almost crushes Piett against a wall. Somehow, Piett maneuvers Veers to the room he’s rented for the night, sighing in relief as Veers thuds onto the bed, making it groan. The room is tiny, it smells of alcohol and worse things, and there’s a stain on the wall Piett hopes is puke. He ignores it and moves to remove Veers’ boots and belt for him to lie comfortably.

Veers hardly shifts as Piett completes his task, and he doesn’t like it. “You’re supposed to put up a fight when someone’s patting you down! I could be out for your throat!” he scolds, but Veers does not respond.

When done, he sits beside Veers on the bed, looking at his face, much too aged and scarred for his liking. He wants to lie down and hold him, but Veers is halfway gone from drink and spice, who knows how he’ll react when finding out Piett is not dead.

Instead he rises to peek out the window, and out the door. Not seeing anything immediately alarming, he returns to Veers who’s now lightly snoring, with a hand over his eyes to block out the light from the uncovered bulb in the ceiling. It’s been far too long since Piett last heard that sound, and it is deeper than he remembers.

He shakes his head, and removes his own boots and belt. There’s no extra bed in the room, but there’s a chair; he finds an extra blanket and curls on the chair after turning off the light. His sidearm is loaded on the floor within his reach.

 

Veers has the mother of all hangovers when he wakes up: his body feels as if it’s been used for AT-AT target practice. He doesn’t remember much from the evening before, but it is not the first time he’s woken up in a room he doesn’t remember entering.

There is no warm body beside him, though, and his owm aching body is grateful that it didn’t have to share the space. In fact, this sorry excuse for a bed seems to be the only one in this miniature room. He closes his eyes, blocking out the sharp daylight by rubbing both hands over his face. He feels far too clear-minded for comfort, and could really use a drink.

Veers hears footsteps, and peeks out through his fingers. He doesn’t care if this person is here to off him, not enough to move anyway. Then he freezes, even his heart seems to stop. He must have used more glitterstim than he thought. He removes his hands, and hauls himself to a seated position, ignoring the vertigo and the strong urge to puke the movements produce.

Firmus Piett sits down in a chair opposite his bed. Veers blinks at him, and Piett looks back at him with a serious and tired expression. His hair has greyed, his hairline receded, the bags under his eyes have grown, and he looks even scrawnier than he used to. For a few heartbeats, Veers feels nothing but utter shock. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he rasps.

“I wasn’t onboard.” The voice is quiet, the face unreadable.

The first feeling to pierce through the fog of shock is rage. Veers jumps to his feet, and the room spins at the motion. “It’s been almost two fucking years! Why didn’t you contact me?” he screams through his raw throat, and it’s loud enough to make the other man flinch.

Piett glares at him. “I ain’t the Admiral o’ Death Squadron, anymore. In case ye missed it, we lost, an’ all the new republic’s been doin’ s’ hunt high-ranking Imperials! I’ve been on the run! An’ I've been searchin’ for ye since I knew ye lived!”

Veers sits back down, the anger evaporating. The heavy lump in his stomach moves up towards his throat, and he swallows. This is a little much for his addled brain to comprehend, and he is somewhat convinced he’s just used too much spice. “How did you even find me?”

Piett’s glare disappears. “Prostitutes, an’ a shitload o’ luck.”

“Prostitutes? I haven’t – “ Veers furrows his brow, the pounding headache interrupting his every thought. “What?”

“I’ve a lot o’ friends from the anti-pirate years, broke lots o’ traffickin’ rings, yer know. Yer bein’ ta’ lots of dingy bars.”

Veers still stares. What even are the odds of this? “But here? on –“ what is this shithole of a planet even called? He can’t remember, and he doesn’t give a shit.

“I know,” Piett says quietly, “a load o’ luck.” He fists his hand around a corner of the blanket. “I’ve missed ye,” it’s even quieter, and Piett avoids his gaze as he speaks, swallowing something.

Veers’ heart clenches, and he hesitantly puts his arms around him. Piett throws himself at him, both arms around Veers’ torso, squeezing him in a bony, tight hug. Piett no longer smells of standard navy-issue cologne, but he is here, warm and alive in Veers’ arms, heart clearly beating through the thin tunic, breath hot on Veers’ neck.

Veers breaths in sharply, and holds it, shuts his eyes. Now he is almost convinced Piett is not a hallucination brought on by drugs and longing. “I – I’ve missed you, too,” Veers croaks, squeezing him probably too hard, but Piett doesn’t complain.

They sit for a while, then Piett wrinkles his nose. “Ye need a shower, Max.” He pulls away, and looks into Veers’ puffy eyes. Veers is hardly a prettier sight up close, all dried-out skin, morning beard and unkempt hair, but Piett nevertheless leans in for a soft kiss. Warm lips on warm lips for the first time in far too long. Veers’ lips are rougher than last time, and he tastes like death, so Piett kisses him chastely, still enjoying the feeling of lips on lips.

“Ye should shower,“ Piett repeats, “an’ we should leave. All sorta’ people heard us use our former titles yesterday.”

Veers does not remember, “And we slept here?” he says, looking around for danger. He might still be hungover, wrecked and about ready to hold on to Piett and never let go, but he is still a soldier at heart, and though he has seldom been this plastered, being on alert is drilled into him

“Ye slept here,” Piett corrects, “ye needed it, I was keepin’ an eye out. It’s been calm, but we really need ta’ leave.” He leans in for a last kiss. “Shower now.”


End file.
